Bob Chaffin looked at the last stack of mail on his desk and sighed. Everyone who subscribed to the Andersonville Enquirer looked forward to their daily dose of Dear, Uncle Bob and he was having trouble finding something appropriate for tomorrow's column.

Feeling tightness over his right eye he knew he was in for a headache if he didn't get up and stretch a few minutes. Before he did anything else, though, he needed something to drink.

As he walked down the hall to the lounge, he muddled over the success of the column he'd suggested to his editor six months earlier. The first week after they'd introduced the Dear, Uncle Bob advice column, close to a hundred letters poured into the office. The count now was up to two hundred a week. Of course, he couldn't respond to every letter that came in, but he paid particular attention to the letters from kids. They needed guidance and he made sure they got it from somewhere. He also made sure anyone who sounded as though they were in serious trouble got help.

Getting back to his office, he placed his bottle of orange juice on his desk, and did a few stretching exercises. He was in the middle of one of these stretches when he noticed the color pink among the more ordinary white envelopes in the remaining stack.

Curious, he reached for the pink and pulled out an ivory colored envelope decorated with pink roses. There was no return address on the envelope which wasn't unusual. The stationery was the oddity. This was the first time he had received a letter seeking advice on such fancy paper.

Excited at the possibility of completing his search, he sat down in his chair and opened the envelope with his letter opener. Then, carefully removing the folded pages, he began to read. At the first sentence he dropped the letter, the pages scattering on the floor.

Pinching himself, he confirmed he was not dreaming and bent down to gather up the sheets of paper. Then he took a couple of deep breaths and began reading again.

Dear, Uncle Bob,

This afternoon my thoughts drifted toward you and I pictured us together in ways that I know I shouldn't because you're my uncle and I'm your niece.

I saw me there with you and I was unbuttoning that red shirt you bought for me, the one that's silky and a bit frillier than what I usually wear; and has the black glass butterfly buttons.

Anyway, I kept unbuttoning the blouse one button at a time until you could see my black lace bra that barely covers anything. You could see my hard nipples pressing against the thin layer of cloth. The nipples I dream of having you touch, and lick, and suck until I absolutely can't stand it anymore. Where I'm gasping and moaning and calling your name and pleading with you to not stop.

By the time I pulled my blue jeans down, revealing that I wasn't wearing panties, my nectar was dripping down the insides of my thighs and my clit felt like it was swollen ten times its size and it was beating in such a way I thought surely you could hear it along with my heart.

Then, I kissed you, Uncle Bob – smack dab on the lips – long and hard – running my tongue across your mouth until you moaned and opened up so that I could taste your tongue, while my fingers were busy between my thighs.

I was planning on taking my time, but something just came over me and I dropped to my knees, unsnapped your jeans, pulled down the zipper, and guided your pounding, swollen cock into my mouth.

I know it's not right, with us being related like we are, but, Uncle Bob, sucking you and drinking your baby juice would almost be the most exquisite thing in all the world to me. The only thing more heavenly, would be for you to fill my womb with that baby juice and give me your baby.

I hope I haven't made you mad at me or embarrassed you by sharing this with you.

Your Loving Niece,

Chrissy

Embarrassed wasn't really the right word for what Bob felt as he hastily folded the rose print pages covered in elegant script and shoved the note inside his briefcase to take home. He was puzzled as hell.

Robert Paul Chaffin didn't have any nieces.

For that matter he didn't have any nephews, either. He was an only child and still single. Furthermore, nobody had ever written him a note anything remotely like what was currently in his briefcase. The last time he'd read anything like that he had to pay $3.95 for the magazine it was printed in.

His mind whirled as he tried to decide whether some lovely young lass was fantasizing about him being her uncle, or whether he had a long lost brother or sister he knew nothing about, except that they knew about him, and had told the niece he didn't know he had about him, too, and somehow she fell madly in love with him despite never having seen or talked with him. He took a mental breath. That thought process was as difficult to get through as the run-on sentence you just read was for you.

He had to go with the fantasy angle. Somebody he knew had a crush on him. She was apparently too shy to say anything face to face, so she wrote to him instead. Kind of an anonymous love note, like kids wrote in school all the time. He thought about the contents of the note. No way was the girl who wrote that shy ... in any way, shape or form. She was also literate. There were no misspellings or grammatical errors in it.

He smiled a wry smile. Only a columnist would notice that, at the same time his dick was getting stiff because of what was written.

So, it was someone he knew. She wasn't shy. She was educated. She had a thing for him, and there was every indication that, if he figured out who she was, he was going to get his dick very, very wet.

The only problem was that he couldn't think of any women he knew who fit that bill, and who were in any kind of position to lust after him.

He was going to have to examine that letter again. There had to be more clues in it as to who she was. And he just had to figure that out. Whoever this lovely woman was, she had already committed him to having to beat his meat like a woman tenderizing a piece of cheap steak when he got home. If he could find her, she might actually go through with what she had, thus far, only fantasized about.

It was certainly worth the trouble to try.

Content as any cat getting a belly rub, Bob went through the remaining letters, chose two, and began working on his responses.

The following morning, most of Bob's readers, including his mystery woman, arose early to get a start on their work day. She had met Bob when he came to visit her fifth grade class. As she had done in her former hometown, Miss Ryan set aside time one day a week for her students to meet three adults from various backgrounds and careers. She wanted them to understand the scope of differences in people and to realize that everyone, no matter who they are, has an important part to play in life.

The Friday Bob Chaffin came to her class, Miss Ryan discovered for the first time that she had physical ailments of which she was not aware. She could barely breathe, her mouth was dry, her stomach queasy and squishy, and she was having difficulty speaking. She considered leaving school and going straight to her doctor, but after going to the school nurse who declared there was no temperature to be found, and with most of her symptoms seemingly to have disappeared, Miss Ryan decided to finish out the day.

The minute she got back to class, though, and Bob Chaffin smiled at her, everything went topsy-turvy again. More than a little confused, (Miss Ryan could not recall feeling this way a day in her thirty-two years of life), she sat down at her desk and listened as he talked about himself and answered the children's questions. During this time, Miss Ryan noted that Bob's rust colored hair had a few gray sprouts here and there, and that his black eyes were trimmed out with long lashes that most women would kill for. She also noticed he wasn't the tallest of men, which she usually found attractive, but his sense of humor, and the fact that his butt and his thighs looked luscious in blue jeans made up for this flaw.

That evening, Miss Ryan phoned her older sister, who was married to a high-school drama teacher, and discussed her odd ailments. Brooksie laughed herself silly before asking, "Don't these things sound the least bit familiar to you, Sugar?"

Brooksie called her by her full name and said, "Read page twelve of our last book."

Their mother, a successful author had been an eccentric recluse, thus, none of her readers knew what she looked like. Upon her passing, her two daughters had taken over the name with only the agent and publisher knowing of the change. Their mother left a room filled with boxes of notebooks containing outlines for plots and characters; and the two women were able to use these and put their own touches on them. They both loved writing romances and coming out with a book a year for the past five years had been a dream come true for both of them.

Miss Ryan found and read the passage. She was astonished to find the description eerily similar to what she had just gone through. She felt almost has helpless as before. She was in love with a man she didn't really know. What was worse ... she wasn't sure what to do.

Emily Ryan was the girl everyone wanted for a friend but when it came to romance they looked elsewhere. She could count on one hand the dates she had been on in the last year. Sad thing was, the count never changed from year to year. At Emly's current age, Brooksie had given birth to twins, bringing her total of children up to six. All Emily had was male friends up to her eyeballs.

Dan, her brother--in-law had said, when asked, that if he was describing her to a man he was trying to get to take her out, he would characterize her something like this:

She's not what I'd call a beautiful woman physically. The thing that makes her special is that she has empathy and intelligence and patience. She's not looking for a pretty face, but rather for someone to get to know and share a lot of life with. What makes her sexy is that she's just a ball of passion inside. That ball is waiting to explode and saturate some guy who will find out that her beauty is mostly on the inside, where it really counts. Take her out. Get to know her. You'll find she's irresistible in the end and you'll look right past her exterior "flaws".

It was with this wisdom that Miss Ryan set about coming up with a plan to allow Bob in on her passionate side; and why she opened up the paper to his column that Tuesday morning with some eagerness mixed with trepidation.

The first letter dealt with a love gone down the tubes.

Dear, Charles (not my real name): She isn't coming back, pal. It would be nice if she was. You and I would both be happy if she did. But she's not. There are lots of fish in the sea. Get yourself some waders and go fishing.

Uncle Bob

The next response was to someone worried about being sick.

Dear, Sick in... : I don't think you spelled the name of that disease correctly. I can't find anything on it in my medical reference. Besides, you need to consult with a doctor, not a newspaper columnist.

Uncle Bob

The last two answers appeared without the letters that had provoked the responses.

Dear, Rupert: Shoot pool, kick the dog, and kiss your wife. You'll be much happier in the long run.

Dear, Chrissy: Sometimes I get letters that really grip me right where I want them to grip me. Your letter did that, but I need more information about you and your situation to provide the best possible service to you. You have as much reason that your hopes will be fulfilled as I do that mine will. Please contact me again so I can help you deal with your situation. It may require a dialog to resolve the issues you brought up. What I CAN tell you right now is that red is the perfect color for the application you described.

The last message made Miss Ryan's year and that evening, dressed in her teddy-bear night-shirt she curled up on her bed and wrote Uncle Bob another letter.

The next morning when Bob arrived at work, he got some interesting stares. He was carrying a red blouse on a hanger. The blouse resembled the one his sweet Chrissy described in her letter with two exceptions. There were no black glass butter-fly buttons. And there was a paper sign attached to the front of the blouse. A sign that Bob had spent time pondering over before deciding to write: IS THIS YOURS? in big bold letters.

By lunch time Bob was wondering just how blind he could be. Four women who worked in the office came in to claim the blouse. Apparently women found him more attractive than he thought he was. But upon further questioning, none of them turned out to be Chrissy and he was left feeling a bit down. He'd thought his plan would be simpler than what it was turning out to be. And when he returned to the office from lunch, he decided the blouse had to go. There were three more women waiting outside his office -- two of whom he couldn't recall ever having seen before -- who got into yelling match.

When the blonde, named Marge, screamed out, "I left it at his house the night I stayed over!" and looked as triumphant as if she'd won an Olympic Gold Medal, the red-head she'd been arguing with couldn't think of anything to say. But the third woman, a brunette, who'd been watching the other two in amusement, said softly, "Marge, you're married."

After work that evening, he slipped into the personnel files to look at job applications. He created a list of single women, (her being attached simply didn't enter his mind), with the first name Christine or had the middle name Christine. To his surprise, there were six women who fit this requirement. He had never realized Christine was such a popular name. Wondering what he was going to do now that he had the list, he went down to his car and drove to his apartment, one of four in an old converted Queen Anne.

Hanging the red blouse, minus the sign, on the hook attached to the back of his bedroom door, he smoothed it with his hand, and thought of the lovely breasts that it might cover were he to find Chrissy, never mind that it might not be her size. He was certain she would wear it no matter the size to play with him.

His cock throbbing at the vision of being able to view her breasts through the gap in the blouse as she suckled him, Bob went into the bathroom to shower and enjoy his dreams.